Chapter 17

The marvellous history of how Monica finds the green-eyed monster in a beech-tree--and how, single-handed, she attacks and overcomes him.

It is not a tender voice. It is not even a gentle or coldly friendly voice. It is, when all is told, a distinctly angry voice, full of possible reproaches and vehement upbraidings.

Monica, raising her head with extreme nervousness, had just time to see Mr. Desmond in the huge fir-tree above her, before he drops at her feet.

"What on earth were you doing up there?" asks she, thinking it wise to adopt the offensive style, so as to be first in the field, feeling instinctively that a scolding is coming and that she deserves it.

"Watching _you_," returns he, sternly, nothing dismayed by her assumption of injured innocence, so her little ruse falls through.

"A charming occupation, certainly!" says Miss Beresford, with fine disgust.

"I climbed up into that tree," says Mr. Desmond, savagely, "and from it saw that you had spent your entire day with that idiot, Ryde."

"Do you think," says Miss Beresford, with awful calm, "that it was a _gentlemanly_ thing to climb into that tree, like a horrid schoolboy, and spy upon a person?--_do you?_"

"I don't," vehemently, "but I was driven to it. I don't care what is gentlemanly. I don't care," furiously, "what you think of me. I only know that my mind is now _satisfied_ about you, and that I know you are the most abominable flirt in the world, and that you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"Well, I'm not," with great self-possession.

"The more to your discredit! That only means that you are bent on doing it again."

"I shall certainly always talk to any man who talks to me. That is," cuttingly, "any man who knows how to conduct himself with propriety."

"Meaning--_I_ don't, I suppose?"

"_Certainly_ you don't."

"Oh, if it comes to that," says Desmond, in tones of the deepest desperation, and as if nothing is left to expect but the deluge in another moment.

And, in effect, it comes. Not, as one has been taught to expect, in sudden storm, and wind, and lightning, but first in soft light drops, and then in a perfect downpour, that bursts upon them with passionate fury.

As they are standing beneath a magnificent beech, they get but a taste of the shower in reality, though Desmond, seeing some huge drops lying on Monica's thin white gown, feels his heart smite him.

"Here, take this," he says, roughly, taking off his coat and placing it round her shoulders.

"No, thank you," says Miss Beresford, stiffly.

"You must," returns he, and, to his surprise, she makes no further resistance. Perhaps she is cowed by the authority of his manner; _perhaps_ she doesn't like the raindrops.

Encouraged, however, by her submission to a further daring of fortune, he says, presently,--

"You might have given Cobbett a turn, I think, instead of devoting yourself all day to that egregious ass."

"He prefers talking to Hermia. I suppose you don't want me to go up to people and ask them to be civil to me?"

"Some other fellow, then."

"You would be just as jealous of him, whoever he was."

"I am not jealous at all," indignantly. "I only object to your saying one thing to _me_ and another to _him_."

"What is the one thing I say to you?"

This staggers him.

"You must find me a very monotonous person if I say only one thing to you always."

"I haven't found you so."

"Then it--whatever it is--must be one of the most eloquent and remarkable speeches upon record. _Do_ tell it to me."

"Look here, Monica," says Mr. Desmond, cautiously evading a reply: "what I want to know is--what you _see_ in Ryde. He is tall, certainly, but he is fat and effeminate, with 'a forehead villanous low.'"

"Your own is very low," says Miss Beresford.

"If I thought it was like _his_, I'd make away with myself. And you listen to all his stories, and believe them every one. I don't believe a single syllable he says: I never met such a bragger. To listen to him, one would think he had killed every tiger in Bengal. In my opinion, he never even saw one."

"'Les absents ont toujours tort,'" quotes she, in a low, significant tone.

This is the finishing stroke.

"Oh! you _defend_ him," he says, as savagely almost as one of those wild beasts he has just mentioned. "In your eyes he is a hero, no doubt. I daresay all women see virtue in a man who 'talks as familiarly of roaring lions as maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs.'"

"I don't think maids of thirteen, as a rule, talk much of puppy-dogs. I'm sure Kit doesn't," says Monica, provokingly. "And really, to do Mr. Ryde justice too, I never heard him mention a roaring lion. Perhaps you are thinking of Artemus Ward's lion that goes about 'seeking whom he may devour somebody.'" She smiles in a maddening fashion.

"I am thinking of Ryde," says Desmond. "I am thinking, too, how mad I was when I thought you liked me better than him. I _did_ think it, you know; but now I am _desillusionnee_. It is plain to me you are infatuated about this fellow, who is 'perfumed like a milliner' and hasn't two ideas in his head."

"I can't think where you find all your quotations," says Monica, who is now seriously annoyed; "but I must ask you not to worry me any further about Mr. Ryde."

"You are madly in love with him," says Desmond, choking with rage. Upon which Miss Beresford loses the last remnant of her patience, and very properly turns her back on him.

The rain has ceased, but during its reign has extinguished the dying sun, which has disappeared far below the horizon. A great hush and silence has followed the petulant burst of storm, and a peace unspeakable lies on all the land. There is a little glimpse of the ocean far away beyond the giant firs, and one can see that its waves are calm, and the fishing-boats upon its bosom scarcely rock.

The grass is bending still with the weight of the past rain, and a plaintive dripping from the trees can be heard,--a refreshing sound that lessens the sense of heat. The small birds stir cosily in their nests, and now and then a drowsy note breaks from one or another; a faint mist, white and intangible, rises from the hills, spreading from field to sky, until

"The earth, with heaven mingled, in the shadowy twilight lay, And the white sails seemed like spectres in a cloud-land far away."

"Ah! you don't like me to say that," says Desmond, unappeased by the beauty of the growing night; "but----"

"Do not say another word," says Monica, imperiously. The moon is rising slowly--slowly,--and so, by the by, is her temper. "I forbid you. Here," throwing to him his coat; "I think I have before remarked that the rain is _quite_ over. I am sorry I ever touched anything belonging to you."

Desmond having received the coat, and put himself into it once more, silence ensues. It does, perhaps, strike him as a hopeful sign that she shows no haste to return home and so rid herself of a presence she has inadvertently declared to be hateful to her, because presently he says, simply, if a little warmly,--

"There is no use in our quarreling like this. I won't give you up without a further struggle, to _any_ man. So we may as well have it out now. Do you care for that--for Ryde?"

"If you had asked me that before,--sensibly,--you might have avoided making an exhibition of yourself and saying many rude things. I don't in the least mind telling you," says Miss Beresford, coldly, "that I _can't bear_ him."

"Oh, Monica! is this _true_?" asks he, in an agony of hope.

"Quite true. But you don't deserve I should say it."

"My darling! My 'one thing bright' in all this hateful world! Oh!" throwing up his head with an impatient gesture, "I have been so wretched all this evening! I have suffered the tortures of the----"

"Now, you musn't say naughty words," interrupts she, with an adorable smile. "You are glad I have forgiven you?"

This is how she puts it, and he is only too content to be friends with her on any terms, to show further fight.

"_More_ than glad."

"And you will promise me never to be jealous again?"

This is a bitter pill, considering his former declaration that jealousy and he had nothing to do with each other; but he swallows it bravely.

"Never. And you--you will never again give me cause, darling, will you?"

"I gave you no cause now," says the darling, shaking her pretty head obstinately. And he doesn't dare contradict her. "You behaved really badly," she goes on, reproachfully, "and at such a time, too,--just when I was dying to tell you _such_ good news."

"Good?--your aunts--" eagerly, "have relented--they----"

"Oh, no! oh, _dear_, no!" says Miss Beresford. "They are harder than ever against you. Adamant is a _sponge_ in comparison with them. It isn't that; but Madam O'Connor has asked me to go and stay with her next Monday for a week!--there!"

"And me too?"

"N--o. Aunt Priscilla made it a condition with regard to my going that you shouldn't be there."

"The----And Madam O'Connor gave in to such abominable tyranny?"

"Without a murmur."

"I thought she had a soul above that sort of thing," says Mr. Desmond, with disgust. "But they are all alike."

"Who?--women?"

"Yes."

"You mean to tell me I am like Aunt Priscilla and Madam O'Connor?"

"_Old_ women, I mean," with anxious haste, seeing a cloud descending upon the brow of his beloved.

"Oh!"

"And, after all, it _is_ good news," says Brian, brightening, "because though I can't stop in the house for the week, still there is nothing to prevent my riding over there every one of the seven days."

"That's just what I thought," says Monica, ingenuously, with a sweet little blush.

"Ah! you wished for me, then?"

She refuses to answer this in any more direct manner than her eyes afford, but says, quickly, doubtfully,--

"It won't be deceiving Aunt Priscilla, your coming there to visit, will it? She must know she cannot compel Madam O'Connor to forbid you the house. And she knows perfectly you are an intimate friend of hers."

"Of course she does. She is a regular old tyrant,--a Bluebeard in petticoats; but----"

"No, no; you must not abuse her," says Monica: so he becomes silent.

She is standing very close to the trunk of the old beech, half leaning against it upon one arm which is slightly raised. She has no gloves, but long white mittens that reach above her elbow to where the sleeves of her gown join them. Through the little holes in the pattern of these kindly mittens her white arms can be seen gleaming like snow beneath the faint rays of the early moon. With one hand she is playing some imaginary air upon the tree's bark.

As she so plays, tiny sparkles from her rings attract his notice.

"Those five little rings," says Desmond, idly, "always remind me of the five little pigs that went to market,--I don't know why."

"They didn't all go to market," demurely. "One of them, I _know_, stayed at home."

"So he did. I remember now. Somehow it makes me feel like a boy again."

"Then, according to Hood, you must be nearer heaven than you were a moment ago."

"I couldn't," says Desmond, turning, and looking into her beautiful eyes. "My heaven has been near me for the last half-hour." If he had said _hour_ he would have been closer to the truth.

A soft, lovely crimson creeps into her cheeks, and her eyes fall before his for a moment. Then she laughs,--a gay, mirthful laugh, that somehow puts sentiment to flight.

"Go on about your little pigs," she says, glancing at him with coquettish mirth.

"About your rings, you mean. I never look at them that I don't begin this sort of thing." Here, seeing an excellent opportunity for it, he takes her hand in his. "This little turquoise went to market, this little pearl stayed at home, this little emerald got some--er--cheese----"

"No, it wasn't," hastily. "It was roast beef."

"So it was. Better than cheese, any day. How stupid of me! I might have known an emerald--I mean a pig--wouldn't like cheese."

"I don't suppose it would like roast beef a bit better," says Monica; and then her lips part and she bursts into a merry laugh at the absurdity of the thing. She is such a child still that she finds the keenest enjoyment in it.

"Never mind," with dignity, "and permit me to tell you, Miss Beresford, that open ridicule is rude. To continue: _this_ little pearl got none, and this little plain gold ring got--he got--what on earth did the little plain gold pig--I mean, ring--get?"

"_Nothing._ Just what _you_ ought to get for such a badly-told story. He only cried, 'Wee.'"

"Oh, no, indeed. He shan't cry at all. I won't have tears connected with you in any way."

She glances up at him with eyes half shy, half pleased, and with the prettiest dawning smile upon her lips.

He clasps the slender fingers closer, as though loath to part with them, and yet his tale has come to a climax.

"If I have told my story so badly, perhaps I had better tell it all over again," he says, with a base assumption of virtuous regret.

"No. I would not give you that trouble for the world," she says, mischievously, and then the dawning smile widens, brightens into something indescribable, but perfect.

"Oh, Monica, I do think you are the sweetest thing on earth," says the young man, with sudden fervid passion; and then all at once, and for the first time, he puts out his arms impulsively and draws her to him. She colors,--still smiling, however,--and after a brief hesitation, moves slowly but decidedly back from him.

"You don't _hate_ me to touch you, do you?" asks he, rather hurt.

"Oh, no, indeed!" hurriedly. "Only----"

"Only what, darling?"

"I hardly know what," she answers, looking bewildered. "Perhaps because it is all so strange. Why should you love _me_ better than any one?--and yet you do," anxiously, "don't you?"

The innocently-expressed anxiety makes his heart glad.

"I adore you," he says, fervently; and then, "Did no one ever place his arm round you _before_, Monica?"

He finds a difficulty in even asking this.

"No, no," with intense surprise at the question, and a soft, quick glance that is almost shamed. "I never had a lover in my life until I met you. No one except you ever told me I was pretty. The first time _you_ said it I went home (when I was out of your sight," reddening, "I ran all the rest of the way) and looked at myself in the glass. Then," naively, "I knew you were right. Still I had my doubts; so I called Kit and told her about it; and she," laughing, "said you were evidently a person of great discrimination, so I suppose she agreed with you."

"She could hardly do otherwise."

"Yet sometimes," says Monica, with hesitation and a downcast face, "I have thought it was all mere fancy with you, and that you don't love me _really_."

"My sweetheart, what a cruel thing to say to me!"

"But see how you scold me! Only now," nervously plucking little bits of bark from the trunk of the tree, "you accused me of dreadful things. Yes, sometimes I doubt you."

"I wonder where I leave room for doubt? Yet I must convince you. What shall I swear by, then?" he asks, half laughing: "the chaste Diana up above--the lovers' friend--is in full glory to-night; shall I swear by her?"

"'Oh, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, lest that thy love prove likewise variable,'" quotes she archly; "and yet," with a sudden change of mood, and a certain sweet gravity, "I do not mistrust you."

She leans slightly towards him, and unasked, gives her hand into his keeping once again. She is full of pretty tender ways and womanly tricks, and as for the best time for displaying them, for this she has a natural talent.

Desmond, clasping her hand, looks at her keenly. His whole heart is in his eyes.

"Tell me that you love me," he says, in a low unsteady voice.

"How can I? I don't know. I am not sure," she says, falteringly; "and," shrinking a little from him, "it is growing very late. See how the moon has risen above the firs. I must go home."

"Tell me you love me first."

"I _must_ not love you; you know that."

"But if you might, you could?"

"Ye--es."

"Then I defy all difficulties,--aunts, and friends, and lovers. I shall win you in the teeth of all barriers, and in spite of all opposition. And now go home, my heart's delight, my best beloved. I have this assurance from you, that your own lips have given me, and it makes me confident of victory."

"But if you fail," she begins, nervously; but he will not listen to her.

"There is no such word," he says, gayly. "Or, if there is, I never learnt it. Good-night, my love."

"Good-night." A little frightened by his happy vehemence she stands well away from him, and holds out her hands in farewell. Taking them, he opens them gently and presses an impassioned kiss on each little pink-tinged palm. With a courteous reverence for her evident shyness, he then releases her, and, raising his hat, stands motionless until she has sprung down the bank and so reached the Moyne fields again.

Then she turns and waves him a second and last good night. Returning the salute, he replaces his hat on his head, and thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, turns towards Coole--and dinner. He is somewhat late for the latter, but this troubles him little, so set is his mind upon the girl who has just left him.

Surely she is hard to win, and therefore--_how_ desirable! "The women of Ireland," says an ancient chronicler, "are the coyest, the most coquettish, yet withal the coldest and virtuousest women upon earth." Yet, allowing all this, given time and opportunity, they may be safely wooed. What Mr. Desmond complains of bitterly, in his homeward musings to-night, is the fact that to him neither time nor opportunity is afforded.

"She is a woman therefore to be won;" but how is his courtship to be sped, if thorns are to beset his path on every side, and if persistent malice blocks his way to the feet of her whom he adores?

He reaches home in an unenviable frame of mind, and is thoroughly unsociable to Owen Kelly and the old squire all the evening.

Next morning sees him in the same mood; and, indeed, it is about this time he takes to imagining his little love as being a hapless prisoner in the hands of two cruel ogres (I am afraid he really does apply the term "ogres" to the two old ladies of Moyne), and finds a special melancholy pleasure in depicting her as a lonely captive condemned to solitary confinement and dieted upon bread and water.

To regard the Misses Blake in the light either of ogres or witches required some talent; but Mr. Desmond, at this period of his love-affair, managed it.

He would go about, too, singing,--

"Oh, who will o'er the downs so free,"

taking immense comfort out of, and repeating over and over again, such lines as--

"I sought her bower at break of day, 'Twas guarded safe and sure;"

"Her father he has locked the door, Her mother keeps the key; But neither bolt nor bar shall keep My own true love from me,"--

until bars, and bolts, and locks, and keys seemed all real.